By Abby Yucht –
after Allen Ginsburg
Do we mourn our own deaths when we sing this full-throated, from the burning furnaces of our
bellies on Judgement Day?
Yitbarach V’yistabach V’yitpaar V’yitromam V’yitnasei
This year burned me down, it burned You down, burned down fences and whole towns.
And burning, burning tongues cry out “Maker of Peace!” so fiercely, so holy, so blessed.
Words so exalted, we never use them any other day.
Words so distant, we never use them any other day.
Words so holy, only the chazzan or the mourners use them any other day.
And here we all are together
shouting them arrow-straight at You,
screaming because we want to feel close– I want to feel close– in a year
so hot, the hand flinches from feeling more closeness than it needs to,
You burning phalanx of burning angels, You God of War and Death.
“Maker of Peace, Maker of Peace!”
Peace, peace, there is no peace.
Bodies dropping left and right, we are all mourners.
We can mourn the soldiers and the hostages and the enemy,
our faith in State, our faith in Each Other, our faith in You.
So much rage, it is easy to erect an altar in every heart,
the sacrificial fire, the eternal flame.
Yitgadal V’yitkadash Shmei Raba.
Abby Yucht is an emerging poet living in Jerusalem.
